


blue curtains & red roses

by wordswithinmoments



Category: Haikyuu!!, haikyuu
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Major character death - Freeform, absolutely not, are we surprised, back at it again w the metaphors n sad storiez, no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:34:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26514529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordswithinmoments/pseuds/wordswithinmoments
Summary: it’s supposed to be simple. the author made the curtains blue because he liked the color blue, so sakusa’s more confused than anything when you come into his life and challenge that thought.
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi & Reader, Sakusa Kiyoomi/Reader
Kudos: 36





	blue curtains & red roses

**Author's Note:**

> another story where, i, once again, hurt sakusa kiyoomi | crossposted on my tumblr (myelocin)

_“Why does the author color the curtains blue?”_

The answer can be as simple as it could be complex. But really, it’s all subjective.

In one perspective, blue could depict the author’s use of imagery to further emphasize and convey the atmosphere of sadness—if the story was, well, _sad._ A somber shade of blue—like the color the world associated with sadness, or even a deep midnight blue, like the void the author must have felt when he spiraled down after the story’s climax.

Then again, in another point of view—blue could mean that it was simply just the color of the curtain. Blue could have meant the subtle blend from the window to the skies outside and maybe even flesh out a metaphor from that. Something along the lines of how easily the things crafted by man could still find a way to blend back into the roots of nature. 

Bits of poetry always settled between the lines, Sakusa likes to think.

Rather, he prefers to settle on the thought that the author colored the curtains blue because he just liked the color blue. Nothing more, nothing less.

He just liked blue, that’s all; there wasn’t a metaphor hidden in that, either.

-

You came into his life, constantly revising the answer to that same question and _unnervingly_ boggling his mind every time.

“You’re exaggerating,” he recalls telling you, but would sigh then relent when you pinched him on the arm to get him to focus again.

“It’s just a curtain,” he explains, before _you_ sighed and would restart your explanation from the beginning. Sakusa would never admit it—but he liked to listen to you talk, that’s why his interruptions and counter arguments were a frequent presence in between your explanations.

“It is,” you huffed (a memory Sakusa always smiles at), as you crossed your hands over your chest. “—but it tells as much as we allow it to.”

“When we read, we always have the ability and choice to set the scene the way we want to look at it. I mean, the story’s there and the dialogue sets the pace, but I could always decide whether I wanted to be the protagonist or antagonist in the story that day,” you said.

“Whatever day it is, the lines _I love you_ stays constant on the page, but some days it could mean a happily ever after, while others, it could mean a love lost to a rival. When I’ll read that the curtain’s blue, I could think that it’s empathizing with my sadness one day and how it’s there to sway with the dip of my thoughts, or I could think that it’s blue to remind me how the blue skies outside speak of opportunities and tomorrows.”

“But what if the author just liked the color blue?” Sakusa challenges, and you’d perk up at his sudden interest in the conversation and would be quick to retort.

“Then blue becomes that constant in the background that reminds you that whether the world is ending or beginning—there will always be those things that remain despite the turmoil in your head. The blue curtain becomes that. Just a spectator in the rollercoaster. It’s hard to find simplicity because everything just feels _that_ connected, Omi.”

You finish your spill, smiling. _Radiant,_ he thinks; intoxication from passion had always been the look that suit you the most.

“You’re not changing your mind are you?” Sakusa laughs out, and you shake your head _no,_ laughing along with him.

 _It’s fine,_ Sakusa thinks, he prefers you that way.

He remembers you that way; inquisitive and abstract in a world that was anything but.

He remembers you in the metaphors you’ve entangled your words in—that he listened to over and over again and would nod his head, expression pondering, like it was the first time he’d heard of such thoughts.

In the photographs he’s kept in even stacks inside a box he hasn’t touched in a little over a year now. Collecting dust, probably. Something Sakusa itches to dust off—but backs out the second he sees the familiar scrawl of your handwriting sitting on the flap that’s folded close.

He looks to the right, to the window of an emptied bedroom, the curtains a dull gray instead of blue—and he thinks it’s rather fitting. At the moment Sakusa supposes he does feel a little gray.

“ _There’s poetry in every moment,”_ he hears the voice in his head say— _your voice._

So like the pull of the sun as the earth falls in orbit, Sakusa gravitates towards pandora’s box where he knows with one push of a flap it’d be enough to tangle him in thoughts of you.

He laughs, a little dryly; not a day goes by where he doesn’t connect metaphors to the world for the sake of adding a couple sentences to the memoir he writes for you.

He holds his breath as he opens the box and smiles as the first color he sees just so happens to be red. He drags the box to the other side of the room—the side facing right across the window and takes a seat as he dives.

The first thing he sees is a photo of you. The photo that followed him for a little over a year now. He remembered he took that photo maybe two or three years ago, in the garden by the park a few blocks away from home. Your dress was white— _fitting,_ he thinks. A literal angel, really. He knows you’d snort at the joke, so he lets out a small chuckle instead; Sakusa knows you appreciate crumbs of happiness sprinkled over clouds of grief, so he hopes that wherever you are, you’re listening and happy.

It’s the photo he stared at when he read your eulogy in a room where the silence thundered over cries, and where the midnight blue curtains in the lobby empathized with the void he felt suffocated in.

Next he sees a sketchbook with red. The same kind of roses you painted over and over again, the stems and petals in vines and overlapping one another, looking like a crown. The stems were smooth, he noticed, void of thorns and cracked petals. He thinks it makes the pages look alive—you’ve always seen the world a little differently, a little more _beautifully._

Sakusa smiles when he realizes that it was because of you that he gave the world another shot at beauty too.

 _“Why do you paint the roses red?”_ he wants to ask you, so he poses the question into a silent room again. _A listening world,_ you’d chide, so he smiles.

“Because you liked red roses the best,” he says because that would be the most obvious answer. And in a way it’s true—he knows that red roses to you meant the memory of home and love.

But after a moment passes, Sakusa sighs because when he thinks of the roses you drew again—he sees the thorns sprout this time.

His chest tightens when petals of red— _bloody red,_ line his vision and fill his lungs when the veins, thorns and all dig into the skin of his shoulders and render him trapped.

He inhales—and Sakusa feels like he can’t _let it out._

 _“Why must the roses always be red?”_ he asks again, and this time, he answers that it is because red is the color of blood.

The color that stained the sheets of white when you left, a goodbye the last thing on your mind as the world decided to return you back to the earth.

Red, the color of your lipstick that you kissed and imprinted on his cheeks as a joke an hour before the world took you. The roses are red, because red is the color that symbolized his grief and anger when he stared at the mirror not wanting to wash his face and erase the last of your traces.

It’s _red,_ Sakusa cries, because it’s the color of the blood that’s pumping in his veins.

Like the one that trickled from yours. Where just like that, it danced between the space of life and death.

_Pumping._

_Seeping._

_Pooling._

_Staining._

The color of the roses you painted were always in some shade of red, because red was the color you painted the beginning and end of your life with.

-

Sakusa stands in the middle of the room, the opened box collecting dust a mere foot away from him and he continues to stare at the blue sky past the gray of the curtains. It’s a cloudless day; so he smiles.

Because you love blue skies like that—Sakusa inhales— _shaky—_ then exhales. Then he allows himself to cry: soft and silent, like it’s a secret he’s murmuring into the listening ears of a kind world.

 _“It sort of is,”_ he can practically hear you say, and Sakusa wishes you were actually present so that he could hear more explanations of the metaphors you must have unearthed by now.

 _“(Y/n),”_ he calls out, his voice broken. _This must be heartbreak,_ he thinks. It’s slow and a little suffocating, but he can exhale now, so Sakusa supposes it’s a necessary step to take. 

“The sky’s blue for you today,” he whispers again, like talking to you is still some sort of secret, though he knows he’ll only receive silence as a reply.

“A blue sky means there’s tomorrow right?”

The grey curtain rustles with the breeze and Sakusa closes his eyes, thinking of your words from before. How you can decide to set the scene in any way you’d like, so he sets it as this:

Even though the curtain’s colored grey, and the thorns on the roses you painted served as the constant in the story, he’d look at the blue sky instead—and think that it’s your way of telling him to seek for tomorrow.

Then for the first time, Sakusa Kiyoomi supposes you’re right. 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me at twitter! lets yell tgt 😗 @honeymakki


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